Wingbeats

A little pinkish thing lies at the foot of the tree;
a purplish blotch on its skull, delicate interlacing arteries,
and perfect bones.

There's a little fluff on its back,
some quills sticking out here and there.
Flight was in your future, but…

Sometimes the wind comes too soon,
a big bully, throws you right out,
and you spin around and around with your heart in your throat,
spread your helpless limbs,
and smash into the pavement.

Sure, you know it's coming someday,
but try as you might,
you can't grow faster, or better.
There's just waiting.
There's no preparation.

You can only lie flat,
imperceptibly growing,
and shiver with the leaves.